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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27284125">Pax Urbana</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peantutbutter/pseuds/peantutbutter'>peantutbutter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, BAMF Matt Bragg, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack Pattillo, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Multi, Nonbinary Rimmy Tim, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:06:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,854</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27284125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peantutbutter/pseuds/peantutbutter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The City is alive.</p><p>Los Santos lives and breathes, and sings with the spirit of his people. Community and Freedom dance with Chaos and Destruction every day; Law and Justice watch over the citizens, and Commerce makes sure there's enough to put food on the table. Life is made to flourish here. But when the City loses one of his own, its only a matter of time before someone — or something — takes advantage of it.</p><p>And Matt. Poor Matt is just having a really goddamn fuckin' terrible day.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matt Bragg/Jeremy Dooley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rage. </p><p>Rage and despair. </p><p>Jeremy wishes they could feel either of them because anything — fucking <em>anything</em> — would be better than the agonizing numbness they're currently experiencing. </p><p>This can’t be happening. It’s impossible. It should have been them. Life is supposed to end. That’s what it <em>does </em>eventually. There’s no escaping it. They know they can’t last forever.</p><p>What the hell happens when Death dies?</p><p>Their friends drag them away from the empty pavement. There’s not even a <em>goddamn bloodstain</em>. Chaos and Destruction hoist them by the arms. They don’t bother shaking them off. There’s no fight left in them. Community and Freedom each place their hands on their shoulder, a pitiful attempt at comfort, while Law and Justice seethe quietly a few paces behind. Commerce is silent, stony and placid against the display, but even he clenches his jaw in a way that signifies grief. </p><p>Life has lost their partner. </p><p>The City stands just outside the warehouse. Jeremy meets his eyes as the group walks past, and they’re old. Echos of civilizations fallen swim behind drooped eyelids — <em>nothing lasts forever all things come to an end it is what it is such is the cycle you cannot stop it — </em>but they gleam wetly with something harrowingly human. Something the City hasn’t been in a long, long time. He seems smaller in the fuzzy streetlight reflected off the water.</p><p>And then the City looks away and Jeremy takes that as their cue to move along. For all he’s done for him, the City can’t provide comfort tonight. Jeremy will have to look beyond if they wants to find that. </p><p>They shrug the hands off his shoulders and wordlessly makes their departure. They needs to find themself. Find themself in a place where they doesn’t coexist with their partner of so many years. Life and Death. Two sides of the same coin. How can one possibly exist without the other?</p><p>They feels off balance, off kilter as the lights and sounds of their home swarm around them. Their heart beats with the pulsing, undulating rhythms of the nightclubs; booze flows like blood until their head buzzes. They speaks with the cheers and cries of the living, and when they can’t take it any fucking longer they scream police sirens, wailing out into the night. </p><p>Their friends feel their course. They can sense the path they rips through their domains. Tears fall like raindrops, breaking the surface. Ripples spread across liquid glass and distort the image underneath. </p><p>And then the ripples aren’t the only things that are muddying the waters. A cold wind rolls in off the ocean. The concrete rumbles underfoot as a crack breaks the foundation.</p><p>The balance of Los Santos has shifted. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Awakening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Enter our hero, Matt Bragg, who is having a rough time and who may or may not be haunted.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As promised, the actual first chapter is much longer than the prologue. Just Matt in this one, but don't worry, we'll see more of the Fakes soon enough.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>The world really has gone to shit, huh?</em>
</p><p>Matt Bragg holds two different gallons of ice cream in his hands. Vanilla with delicious swirls of fudge and peanut butter in one, and a tub of plain, good old-fashioned chocolate in the other. Six-fifty and seven dollars, respectively. If he’s lucky, he’ll get fifty cents off with his store membership card. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”</p><p>The last time he was in here, the most expensive ice cream he saw was the bougie shit with alcohol in it. Your run-of-the-mill chocolate has no business being seven fucking dollars. </p><p>An old lady ambles slowly behind him, the wheel of her cart squeaks at just the right frequency to turn his headache into a migraine. Fuck it. He’s intrigued. It better be the best damn chocolate ice cream he’s ever had. He tosses it into his basket with the packages of cookies and donuts he picked up in the bakery section. </p><p>His skin prickles and he glances over just in time to see the old lady turning away from him. She sniffs disapprovingly and pointedly loads her cart with frozen vegetables.</p><p><em>Well fuck you too, lady. </em>He didn’t come in intending to get so much junk food. It’s not <span class="pwa-mark decorator">like he doesn</span>’t have actual, real person food at home. He just forgot to grab fish food last time he went shopping. If he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">happened to be</span> tempted by a good deal on day-old cookies and overpriced ice cream, that’s none of her goddamned business. </p><p>Whatever. He’s got a look about him that people like her <span class="pwa-mark decorator">tend to </span>hate. He puts a lot of effort into the whole “long-haired-stoner-who-still-lives-in-his-mom’s-basement-at-age-30” look. Each awful hoodie <span class="pwa-mark decorator">was carefully curated</span> from various thrift stores throughout Los Santos, every ratty pair of jeans kept and beanie purchased <span class="pwa-mark decorator">with the intention of becoming</span> faceless. To disappear into a crowd of thousands of others who look exactly like him. It seems counter-intuitive to disappear somewhere where there're millions of people, but when most of them don’t give enough of a shit to even look at you, it’s the only option that makes sense. </p><p>Moving at a leisurely pace — nothing suspicious here, no sir, just a dude grabbing the essentials — he heads towards the pets section and picks up a container of fish flakes before breezing through the self-checkout. Fewer items, fewer people he has to interact with. With a plastic bag slung over the crook of his elbow, he shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders. He ducks his head to avoid the security cameras as he exits the store. </p><p>It’s unlikely anyone from back East will come looking for him all the way out here — where he’s from, people <span class="pwa-mark decorator">generally </span>hide out in bunkers somewhere in the Appalachians — but he can never be too careful. Old habits die hard, or something like that. It’s a digital world nowadays, and all it takes is one semi-clear image seen by the wrong person to kick the heat back up again. </p><p>And moving sucks. Like it really, <em>really </em>sucks. He doesn’t want to leave so soon. It took him months to get comfortable where he is. He’s not sure his fish could handle packing up so abruptly again. They barely survived making it to Los Santos<span class="pwa-mark decorator"> in the first place</span>. He can’t put them through that again.</p><p>He shuffles back to his apartment. The worn soles of his shoes scuffle along the pavement, and he wishes he could afford a bicycle. Anything to make the handful of commutes he has to make throughout the week <span class="pwa-mark decorator">a bit </span>shorter. If he’s lucky, he might <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be able to </span>dig up enough change for a bus fare from between the couch cushions. His shoulders slump even further.</p><p>He <span class="pwa-mark decorator">kind of </span>regrets blowing seven dollars on ice cream now. </p><p>A wave of nausea hits him suddenly and the hair on the back of his neck prickles uncomfortably. His stomach churns violently and his chest tightens. He freezes where he stands. God dammit, really? Is he really having panic attack now? His lungs feel like they’re beings squeezed from the inside by an invisible fist. Sweat beads on his brow and it takes what feels like a Herculean amount of effort just to get his feet to move. His shoes are like concrete. His limbs might as well be <span class="pwa-mark decorator">lead</span>.</p><p>Fuck, he doesn’t want to have a full breakdown in the middle of the street. It wouldn’t be out of place in a city like Los Santos; he’d just <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be seen</span> as some other guy having <span class="pwa-mark decorator">a bad trip</span>. But shit dude, he has at least a scrap of pride <span class="pwa-mark decorator">in tact</span> and he wants to keep it for as long as he can. </p><p>He ducks into an alley, out of sight, out of mind. Just another one of the city’s unfortunates. </p><p>Black dots swarm his vision at the sharp movement. He presses his forehead against the side of a building. The chill of the bricks is soothing. Cool and dry against his heated brow. With a groan, his eyes fall shut and in the darkness, the pressure in his head subsides.</p><p>And then he thinks he sees something. But that can’t be possible. His eyes are closed. He squeezes them, presses his palms to his eye sockets, giving them a good rub for extra measure. Surely he’s just imagining things. Migraines fuck with his vision, he knows this. But among the starbursts of color, he definitely sees something moving. Darker shapes — if that was even possible — that seem to wriggle and writhe. The ringing in his ears — had they been ringing before? — gets higher and louder. His knees are about to buckle, stomach threatening to turn itself inside out until bile corrodes his esophagus. Dread settles heavy and frigid over his shoulders.</p><p> <em>I need to move. I need to get out of here;</em> he thinks in a panic. And then, more clearly, <em>Something’s wrong.</em></p><p>There’s a sudden strength in that realization. A sense of fortification, and he’s not sure where it came from. <em>True,</em> he hears a voice murmur in the back of his mind. His eyes snap open, and fuck the sunlight hurts, but something tingles and hums in the back of his brain that if he doesn’t move <em>now</em>, the sun is going to be the least of his problems. </p><p>The area around him feels colder, somehow. Not like a cool breeze coming in off the ocean. This is an unexplained absence of warmth, like all the heat in the world has <span class="pwa-mark decorator">been sucked</span> away by a black hole. It seizes his lungs. He tries to cough, to shiver, to do anything that might bring the warmth back. But he’s left with an overwhelming, crippling sense of loneliness, instead.</p><p>There’s something sinister about this cold.</p><p>Something like despair. </p><p>And then he feels it. Something sharp and arctic wraps around his ankle, seeping into his bones. He pushes himself from the wall, looking down to see what had grabbed him. </p><p>His vision swims again. Black dots. Fuzzy static. Shadows that weren’t shadows. He thinks for a moment he’d lost his glasses. Everything <span class="pwa-mark decorator">is blurred</span> and out of focus, like his eyes are struggling to see what’s in front of him. But rather than fear, he’s just… annoyed. He’s never liked having things hidden from him. It’s the reason he got so good snooping through peoples<span class="pwa-mark decorator">’</span> shit and finding their secrets. Why he left the Carolinas. Because he couldn’t <span class="pwa-mark decorator">fucking</span> stand being lied to. </p><p>“<em>Show me,”</em> he says in a voice that’s definitely his, but also something more. There’s a command to it. An authority he never knew he held. “<em>Show me the </em>truth.”</p><p>A warm energy pulses from him, causing the air to ripple in waves. And then, like water settling after its been disturbed, Matt can finally <em>see.</em></p><p>And he really wishes he couldn’t. </p><p>Wrapped around his ankle, slowly inching its way up his leg is an inky black <em>thing.</em> He doesn’t want to call it a tentacle. It’s too amorphous, too fluid to be that. But it’s strong, and glistens wetly with the oily sheen of disease. </p><p>Matt looks around in a panic and finds more of the thick, viscous ooze bleeding out from between cracks in the walls and concrete. He kicks his leg wildly with a hissed, “Get the fuck off me!” He must look insane. He feels insane, but there’s that low hum in his mind that tells him <em>false.</em> He’s more sane than he’s ever been. More <em>him</em> than he’s ever been. </p><p>He doesn’t know how he knows that. He doesn’t quite understand what it means, and really, all he wants to do is get the hell out of here. </p><p>His leg arcs, and pain erupts through his foot when he accidentally hits the wall. Dimly, he thinks he might have broken something — <em>false</em> — but he’s more focused on watching the <em>thing</em> fly <span class="pwa-mark decorator">through the air </span>and land on the ground in a sick, goopy, mess. It lays there on the filthy concrete for a moment. Then it shudders and moves, crawling towards a larger puddle of the shit. It seems to screech, almost frustrated by how slow its moving, and he observes it with a morbid intrigue. </p><p>The rattling of a nearby sewer grate brings him back to himself, to the unsettling <em>wrongness</em> of everything happening. His head still throbs, the pressure behind his eyes making them feel like they’re going to pop out of his skull. The ringing in his ears has yet to quiet, but he really doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s not safe, and there’s only one thing he can do if he wants to get away. </p><p>So, with stumbling footsteps, Matt Bragg <span class="pwa-mark decorator">begins to run</span>. </p><p>The ooze reaches for him, slithering across the ground like a spreading pool of oil. Gooey tendrils desperately trying to grab at his shoes and hem of his jeans. He’s faster than them, though, and he leaps over the rattling <span class="pwa-mark decorator">manhole</span> cover when he realizes more of that vile, brackish sludge is seeping from it. </p><p>Fleeing out the other side of the alley, he has three thoughts:</p><p>He has to get away —</p><p>
  <em>.True</em>
</p><p>Whatever that shit is, it’s dangerous —</p><p>
  <em>.True</em>
</p><p>He must <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be hallucinating</span>; everything will be just fine once he pops an aspirin and takes a nap. </p><p>The tingling hum in his head doesn’t respond. </p><p>He keeps running. </p>
<hr/><p>It’s the wee hours of the morning when Matt rolls off the couch, bleary-eyed and mouth fuzzy with sleep. He had stumbled home in a frantic, cold sweat, thrown the ice cream into the freezer, and then promptly passed out. The headache is still there, that hasn’t changed, but it’s just a dull, baseline sort of ache. Not the brain numbing migraine it was in the alley. An event he’s not entirely sure <span class="pwa-mark decorator">actually </span>happened.</p><p>Really, what the hell was that?</p><p>His migraines never came with hallucinations like that, but he vaguely remembers reading that it can happen. Same with the ringing. But, fuck, he’s <span class="pwa-mark decorator">never had anything</span> that bad before. Or at least he hadn’t until now. </p><p>Or, fuck dude, maybe it was just a dream. <span class="pwa-mark decorator">His perception of time has been warped</span> <span class="pwa-mark decorator">at best </span>for the past… uh… never mind. It’s entirely possible he crashed and dreamed the whole thing. Either way, he’s pretty sure it <span class="pwa-mark decorator">was the result of</span> insomnia and paranoia. With that unholy combination stuck in the pressure cooker of his brain, <span class="pwa-mark decorator">it was bound</span> to explode, eventually. Well, at least now he knows what happens when he pushes himself like that. Everything’s a learning experience. That’s what an optimist would say, right? His mom used to tell him to <span class="pwa-mark decorator">try to </span>be more optimistic.</p><p>Regardless, zero out of ten experience. Definitely would not recommend.</p><p>He groans, drags his hands down his face, and scrubs the sand from his eyes. Fuck, what time is it? He gropes blindly for his glasses, hands smacking against the dumpster-find coffee table until he finally hits plastic. He clumsily slaps them on his face and squints at the glowing green numbers. Quarter past four. Footsteps thud lightly in the apartment above him. The crazy-early risers are starting their day. He might<span class="pwa-mark decorator"> as well</span>, too.</p><p>He stumbles to the bathroom — needs to <span class="pwa-mark decorator">do something to </span>make himself feel less disgusting. It’s nothing more than a quick scrub with a wet toothbrush and a splash of cold water over his face, but it’s enough to help him feel kind of like a person. </p><p>And then he makes the mistake of looking at his reflection. God, he looks terrible. The roots of his bleached streak have grown out. His beard is <span class="pwa-mark decorator">scraggly and unkempt</span>, and the bags under his eyes are so deep and his cheeks so sallow they’re casting shadows. The filament of the last functioning bulb in the bathroom flickers and buzzes, casting his skin <span class="pwa-mark decorator">a</span> dingy yellow light. He’s always been pale, but he looks downright sickly. A goddamn ghost. </p><p>He tears his gaze away from the mirror and splashes more water on his face, as if it’ll wash away his ghastly visage. Underneath all that hair, he really isn’t much more than a skeleton. He shakes his head and scrubs his face with a towel. He’s only feeling human-adjacent, but some days that just has to do. </p><p>Pushing himself off the sink, he exits the bathroom. He only thinks it’s a little odd that the sound of the buzzing light bulb seems to follow him. Whatever. It’s probably on its way out. He’ll let it illuminate his apartment until it dies or until the sun rises. Whichever comes first. </p><p>When it does, <span class="pwa-mark decorator">he’ll have to</span> dig around and see if that pack of bulbs he bought forever ago. Fuck, adulting really is just one goddamn thing after another, isn’t it?</p><p>He sighs and goes into the kitchen to tinker with his coffee maker. It’s clunky and rattles every time he turns it on, but it’s one of the few relics of home he could salvage before fleeing out west. He’s keeping this piece of shit until it craps out and electrocutes him.</p><p>He’s filling the reservoir with water when the buzzing gets louder. It warbles and morphs until it sounds more like a police siren, fading in and out. A high-pitched warning that something is very, <em>very</em> wrong.</p><p>Disquiet rolls like a stone, heavy in his gut, and he realizes that he can’t move. He swallows thickly, exhales a shuddering breath, and sees a cloud puff out in front of him. That bone-deep chill <span class="pwa-mark decorator">starts creeping</span> up his spine as the temperature around him drops. He’s stuck. Only his eyes are free to dart around wildly, frantically searching for whatever’s causing this. </p><p>Goddamn, that <em>sound</em>. It drills into his head, burrows into his brain, like a worm or a leech, or a mole. Digging and digging until it seems like it’s going to go straight through him. But somewhere in there, in the fluctuating pitch and screeches, he thinks he hears something like voices cutting through radio static. </p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut. <em>Move,</em> he tells himself. <em>God dammit, move. </em>His muscles strain with effort, tensing and flexing. He might as well be pushing against a five-hundred pound boulder. </p><p>And then that low hum <span class="pwa-mark decorator">starts to vibrate</span> at the back of his skull.</p><p>What happened in the alley was real — </p><p>
  <em>.True</em>
</p><p>It’s happening again —</p><p>.T<em>rue</em></p><p><em>I need to ground myself</em>, and fuck if he knows what that means in a situation like this, but he knows it’s the only way he’ll be able to move. His mind scrambles for those breathing exercises his school counselors taught him whenever he felt an anxiety attack about to happen. <em>In… two… three… four. Out… two… three… four…</em></p><p>His muscles relax as he repeats the exercise a few times, but all he can manage is to wiggle his toes. And then, like fucking breathing for the first time, water overflows from the reservoir and spills onto his hands. With a gasp, his eyes fly open, and he drops the plastic reservoir into the sink. It lands with a hollow clatter as water sloshes all over his counters. He stumbles back, falling to his ass and breathing shallowly. </p><p>He blinks a few times, shaking himself back to the present. The city heat returns in a rush, crushingly oppressive and cloyingly sticky. A tremor wracks his body that culminates in a wet cough. His tailbone aches from falling on it so hard, but the linoleum smooth under his palms and the cabinets are hard against his back. Something real. Something solid. Tilting his head back to rest on the hardwood, he closes his eyes and resumes the breathing exercises.</p><p><span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>In</em></span><em>… two… three… four… </em>His name is Matthew Ringer Bragg —</p><p>
  <em>.T</em>
  <em>rue</em>
</p><p><span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>Out</em></span><em>… two… three… four… </em>He’s in his apartment in Los Santos —</p><p>
  <em>.T</em>
  <em>rue</em>
</p><p><span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>In</em></span><em>… two… three… four…</em> It’s a little past four in the morning.</p><p>
  <em>.False</em>
</p><p>He furrows his brows and opens his eyes, perplexed by how he is both absolutely sure of the time while simultaneously knowing he’s wrong. There’s a faint <em>pop</em> from his bathroom light burning out, and the static-y whispers fade away. He hauls himself up, using the counters to bear his weight. It almost feels like something is missing now that it’s so quiet. </p><p>Sunlight filters in through the cracks in his blinds and when he looks at the time on his microwave, it’s almost nine. </p><p>
  <em>What the fuck?</em>
</p><p>His neighbor’s door slams shut, and they storm down the hall in heavy, stomping footfalls. Cars honk and people shout outside. Life carries on, completely uncaring towards the fact that Matt is <span class="pwa-mark decorator">either </span>being haunted or having a breakdown.</p><p>He… He needs to sit down. Not on the floor. He ignores the water dripping off his counters — that’s a later problem — and opts for sinking into his desk chair instead. He heaves a weary sigh and buries his head in his hands. A million questions run through his mind, but he keeps circling back around to two: <em>What the fuck is going on?</em> <span class="pwa-mark decorator">and</span> <em>What the fuck am I gonna do?</em></p><p>His computer pings and <span class="pwa-mark decorator">thank</span> God for well-timed distractions. It’s so much easier to ignore his problems than try to do something about them. He wiggles his mouse and wakes the screen. Combing through his gmail, he finds nothing. A few coupons from the few places he’s ordered food from and notification emails from the few networking sites he signed up for under his current alias. Nothing of interest. </p><p>Then he pulls up his secure email. The one for the services of dubious legality he offers. He had to adopt a new name when he moved. It’s been hell trying to rebuild credibility. Axial may never be as well known as his old hacker identity, but that’s not the goal. The goal is to stay alive and have enough money to not starve. </p><p>There’s a single unread message in his inbox. It’s from a contractor he’d been working with over the past week<span class="pwa-mark decorator"> or so</span>. Some business man who wanted the dirty secrets of a rival. It’s been <span class="pwa-mark decorator">easy work</span>. Nothing too challenging. He’s had everything collected and organized on a USB stick and has just been waiting to schedule a drop-off and pickup. Looks like this is exactly that. He types up a quick response, agreeing to the time and place: Wharf 32 at the far end of the Port. Midnight. </p><p>He sends it off, and that’s that. It’s gonna be a pain in the ass to get down there, but the money he’ll walk away with will be more than worth it. Hell, he’ll be able to afford that bike when this is all done with. </p><p>But until then, he’s got some time to kill. Might as well work on a few of the shit-paying freelance programming jobs he’s taken to keep him busy. </p><p>It’s odd. He’s fucking exhausted and cold despite the summer heat. But there’s no way he can go back to sleep. Not with how jittery and wired he is. So it looks like he’s joining the normal Los Santos population in the standard nine-to-five workday.</p><p>But first coffee. </p><p>Fuck, it’s gonna be a long day.</p>
<hr/><p>It takes Matt over an hour to cross the city by bus, but he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">manages to make</span> it just in time. Midnight crept up on him faster than he thought it would, and he had to make a detour to stop and pick up a case for the thumb drive. These business types like shit like that. Makes them feel like they’re in the movies or some dumb shit. </p><p>Whatever. He can help fulfill some scumbag’s power fantasies for a night if it means he gets ten-grand out of it. It really is all about showmanship, and as much as he hates it, he’s figured out what works. Clandestine meetings and general secrecy. It’s all bullshit, but it’s a game he has to play. </p><p>He pulls his hood over his head and a bandanna over his nose. He feels like an asshole wearing sunglasses at night, but if this is actually a bust or Mr. Business gets trigger-happy, he’d like to keep his identity hidden for as long as possible. </p><p>Thunder rumbles and lightning strikes over the ocean as Matt approaches the pier, but the wind is entirely dead. The water is deathly still. Dark, smooth glass shimmering in the lamplight and extending into eternity. It reminds Matt of that strange ooze that attacked him yesterday — and God, was it really only yesterday?</p><p>His stomach does a nervous flip, but he stomps that feeling down. He prefers good old fashion locker drop offs, but some clients like the face-to-faces. It’s not like he hasn’t done this a hundred times before. <em>It’s just business,</em> he tells himself. <em>Everything will be just fine.</em> </p><p>He half expects a tingling at the base of his skull. Some judgement of <em>truth </em>or <em>false.</em> But there is none. Just him and his years of criminal experience to get him out of this alive.</p><p>He stops short of Mr. Business and his thugs, giving himself a good twenty feet between them. Enough space to give him a head start if he needs to run. Assuming he doesn’t get shot first, that is. He clears his throat, announcing his presence. </p><p>Mr. Business turns around. He looks every bit the Los Santos elite Matt expected him to be. They all look the same. Slicked back hair, a predatory gaze. The lines of his suit <span class="pwa-mark decorator">are pressed</span> so <span class="pwa-mark decorator">sharp</span> they could slit someone’s throat. He smiles, something tight that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and rubs his hands together. “Axial, I presume?”</p><p>Matt hates this guy already. He settles for a nod. He doesn’t want to engage in conversation more than absolutely necessary. </p><p>Mr. Business takes it in stride. “Not a conversationalist, are we?” he asks. “That’s alright. I’d rather be just about anywhere else too. But, we’ve both got something the other wants, and it looks like there’s a bad one rolling in, so let’s get down to business, shall we?” He motions for one of his goons to step forward. The guy is carrying a briefcase. He tosses towards Matt and it lands on the concrete, clattering noisily. “Five-thousand dollars,” Mr. Business explains. “<span class="pwa-mark decorator">Go ahead and check</span> it. It’s all there. You get the other half once we get the stick and confirm it’s legitimate.”</p><p>Matt shuffles forward a few steps, eyeing the guys warily. Kneeling down, he flips the latches — heavy duty; they didn’t break when it hit the ground. There isn’t even a dent in the plastic. It’s a disproportionately large container for the paltry amount of cash housed inside, but whatever. He’ll probably end up placing all the money in one case, anyway. Better to have the extra room. He reaches for a random stack of bills and leafs through them. No blank paper. No ink packets. He shimmies a bill from the middle of the stack and holds it up to the nearest lamp to check for signs of counterfeit. </p><p>It all looks good. </p><p>Whatever the hell is happening on the other end of the pier, however, definitely <em>does not.</em></p><p>It’s difficult to make out in the darkness. The shadows are already so deep and black. It’s actually the sound of something falling into the water that tips Matt off. His eyes snap up from the money and he immediately wants to throw up. Mr. Business’s head rests at such an unnatural angle that Matt thinks his neck <span class="pwa-mark decorator">is broken</span>. But no, he blinks, eyes going from a cold, steely blue, <span class="pwa-mark decorator">to completely pitch</span>. His smile widens, creeping and shark-like, and fuck, his teeth definitely weren’t that sharp a second ago. </p><p>His goons writhe behind him, their limbs twisting and snapping like they can’t figure out which way they’re supposed to bend. There’s panicked look on their faces. They don’t know what’s happening either. Black tendrils creeping up from the ground squeeze around their throats, silencing their cries for help. He watches those tendrils crawl inside their gaping mouths, their noses, their eyes, any open orifice available. Matt swallows thickly around a lump in his throat, and once it’s all over, he watches the thugs’s expression mirror their boss’s. </p><p>Well, that’s fucking unnerving. </p><p>He’s not surprised when that goddamn ringing starts again.</p><p>“Is there a problem, <em>Matthew</em>?” Mr. Business asks, all pleasant and calm and sickly sweet. </p><p>Now, Matt had been on the fence about this whole thing. Thought that maybe it was all just in his head and he was losing it. But considering what he’s just seen and the fact that this guy just called him by name, something he shouldn’t —<em> couldn’t — </em>have been able to find, he’s pretty sure there’s some fucked up and supernatural shit going on. And <span class="pwa-mark decorator">for some reason, </span>he’s caught in the middle of it. </p><p>The back of his skull hums.</p><p>
  <em>.True</em>
</p><p>Well, that’s good enough for him. </p><p>Mr. Business’s head lolls to the other side in what Matt thinks <span class="pwa-mark decorator">is supposed</span> to be an inquisitive gesture. The limbs of the muscled monsters behind him elongate, hissing and screeching in enraged pain all the while. Twenty feet between him and them. They’re going to close that gap quickly. </p><p>He has to act fast.</p><p>Sucking in a shuddering breath, Matt steels himself.</p><p>And then he bolts. </p><p>Like a runner taking off from a crouching position, Matt completely abandons the case of money and shoots off towards the warehouses. One of them’s got to have a good place to hide. </p><p>A monster screeches behind him, bloodcurdling and piercing. The familiar clutch of cold threatens to claw its way into his muscles, but he grits his teeth and ignores the pounding in his head. He focuses on the ground beneath his feet, on the frantic rabbit of his heart, on what’s right in front of him. </p><p>He can hear the horrible <span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>schlurk</em></span><em>-</em><span class="pwa-mark decorator">ing</span> of the creatures trailing behind him, but he doesn’t dare look back. It would only slow him down. And he’s not entirely sure he wants to see how they move when they’re on the hunt. </p><p>He pivots and peels off into a thin alley between shipping containers. He keeps taking random, twisting turns, hoping, praying, that it’ll be enough to throw off whatever the hell is chasing him. His lungs burn, his legs ache — shit, he’s out of shape — and eventually he’s spat out just outside a warehouse next to the water. His bandanna has slipped from his nose, and he sucks in the humid, salty air, completely unfiltered. </p><p>A quick glance over his shoulder tells him he’s lost his pursuers, at least for a moment. The ringing in his ears has quieted, but it’s slowly getting louder, presumably as they come closer. </p><p>He can taste something tangy and metallic in his throat, and his chest feels like it’s about to explode, but there’s no time to stop. He needs to find somewhere to hide. There’s a pile of barrels and rope stacked up against one side of the warehouse. Good enough, he supposes. </p><p>He darts towards it.</p><p>And then he experiences the worst pain he’s felt in his entire life. Like <span class="pwa-mark decorator">he’s been shot</span>, absolutely torn to pieces and shredded by bullets. He feels wet and sticky, feels the blood oozing from his torso, but when he looks down, he’s completely fine. Terror and adrenaline that doesn’t belong to him sends his heart racing faster than before, and he hears the memory of someone screaming a name. </p><p>He stumbles behind the barrels, struggling to catch his breath. The sunglasses fly off his face, and then it all clicks into place. Somehow, he sees what happened here. </p><p>Ghostly figures move like players on a stage in front of his hiding spot. Translucent and wispy, but present<span class="pwa-mark decorator"> nonetheless</span>. A tall man in jeans and a jacket phases through the closed doors of the warehouse, running like his life depends on it, before he stops short. He presses a finger to his ear. Matt can’t hear what he’s saying, not entirely sure if his bizarre little movie comes with sound. </p><p>Then the ghost snaps to attention. He lifts his arms up, gun in hand, but he doesn’t shoot, just watches as some invisible entity grows. His neck cranes as he looks up. Arms lowering, the grip on his gun falling loose until it’s almost slipping from his fingers. Something glitters at the corners of his eyes and it’s hard to see, but Matt swears there’s a faint smile. His lips move, but he can’t make out what he says. </p><p>And then darkness descends upon him, fast and violent, and a scream echoes in Matt’s mind. One of anger and raw with grief that makes his heart sink in his chest. It isn’t the voice of the ghost. It’s the voice of someone else. Someone who was there and saw all this happen. </p><p>What fuck is going on? </p><p>Matt is really starting to get sick of asking that question. </p><p>The darkness ebbs away, only to come back in full force when Mr. Business steps onto the concrete stage. His hands are in his pockets, leisurely pacing his way around the entrance to the warehouse. “I don’t wish to hurt you, Matthew,” he says. “I really do only wish to talk. I don’t understand why you humans make this so difficult on yourselves. All you do is tire yourselves out when you struggle like this.”</p><p>Alright, Matt’s really not a fan of how ominous that is. Nor is he a big fan of the multiple tones going on with this guy’s voice. Fuck, did he absorb the other ones? That’s messed up. </p><p>He presses his back against the wall, trying to stay as hidden as <span class="pwa-mark decorator">possible </span>while still <span class="pwa-mark decorator">keeping an eye on</span> Mr. Business. <em>What the hell are you?</em> Matt doesn’t ask, but the answer to his question hits him so hard it takes his breath away.</p><p>In a million silent voices, he feels something respond: <em>I am inevitable.</em></p><p>There’s no hum in the back of his head. No <em>truth</em> or <em>false</em> or <em>lie.</em> There’s nothing. </p><p>He doesn’t have time to consider what it means or what to make of it. Mr. Business is staring right at him. “Ah, there you are,” he says. Matt blinks and suddenly, he’s there in front of him, grabbing him by the jaw and hauling him upright. His fingers, cold and inexplicably wet, <span class="pwa-mark decorator">are sharpened</span> into nasty talons that dig into the <span class="pwa-mark decorator">soft,</span> paper thin flesh of Matt’s face. Something seeps into his skin. It’s thick and frigid, moving like sludge through his veins. He feels sick. He feels wrong. “I told you, Matthew, I do not wish to hurt you,” Mr. Business hisses in that three layered voice. “But I <em>will</em> do this the hard way, if you keep insisting on being troublesome.”</p><p>Now, Matt might know jack about whatever kind of alien Venom-<span class="pwa-mark decorator">esque</span> symbiote bullshit is happening here, but he knows a few things about standard male anatomy. </p><p>It’s not <span class="pwa-mark decorator">a fair or honorable</span> move, but it’s all he has in his arsenal at the moment. He’s really not keen on having anything more to do with this guy. So he lifts his knee and jams it into Mr. Business’s balls. </p><p>He guesses the guy must still be <span class="pwa-mark decorator">somewhat </span>human<span class="pwa-mark decorator"> after all</span>, because he howls in pain and let’s Matt go. He cringes sympathetically, but still pries himself free from Mr. Business’s grip. Nut kicks fucking suck, and he feels bad for doing that to a guy, but also he really doesn’t want to end up eaten or absorbed into some slimy, inky hive mind or whatever. </p><p>He scrambles away, and fuck, he really wishes he had better options than running directly past Mr. Business, risking getting caught again, and running right into harbor. </p><p>He, stupidly, chooses the water. </p><p>It’s a messy dive of flailing limbs and loud cursing, as he plunges into choppy, freezing water. Thunder rumbles overhead. Lightning cuts across the sky. The storm must finally <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be rolling</span> in. </p><p>Oh, this is bad. </p><p>He barely has time to gasp for breath before a wave crashes overhead, pushing him down. And then he’s caught in an undertow. It starts as a pressure tugging at his legs, and then suddenly, he’s swept God knows where. He barely <span class="pwa-mark decorator">manages to hold</span> his breath as he’s dragged further out to sea.</p><p>Well, the good news is that he’s getting away from Mr. Business, and he’s doing it fast. </p><p>The bad news is he can’t <span class="pwa-mark decorator">fucking</span> breathe, and he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">has no idea</span> <span class="pwa-mark decorator">which </span>way is up. </p><p>His lungs burn, and he kicks his legs, trying to escape from the current. He’s scared. He’s lost. He’s confused. </p><p>Oh, God. His fish. Who’s going to take care of them?</p><p>Who will even notice he’s gone?</p><p>He’s going to die out here. No one is even going to <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be able to </span>find his body. </p><p>The soft vibrations in the back of his head are conspicuously silent. And, well, he guesses that <span class="pwa-mark decorator">fuckin</span><span class="pwa-mark decorator">’</span> <span class="pwa-mark decorator">figures</span>. Something weird and possibly paranormal enters his life and less than two days later he’s dead. Not the note he thought he’d go out on, but honestly, he can think of worse. </p><p>His limbs grow heavy the longer he struggles, and he can’t hold his breath anymore. The pressure in his chest is unbearable. His diaphragm spasms and water rushes into his nose and lungs. </p><p>Shit. This is it.</p><p>Slowly, his eyes drift shut.</p><p>Maybe all this shit really was just in his head.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>.False</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Matt awakes with a start, saltwater erupting from his mouth and nose. It fucking hurts. The saltwater is rough and abrasive against his tongue and throat. He coughs and rolls over onto his hands and knees, heaving the fluid from his lungs onto the ground. His trembling limbs can barely hold his weight, and once he’s only coughing up bile, his arms give way. </p><p>Wet, gritty sand cakes his beard and hair, and when he cracks his eyes open, he realizes he’s on a beach. The water laps at his legs and thunder rumbles somewhere deeper in the city, drawing his attention to the fact that it’s pouring. Were he not already soaked to the bone, he’d <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be upset</span> over the general discomfort this would cause. But everything hurts, and he feels like absolute shit, so he guesses it really doesn’t matter. It’s not like his clothes are getting any wetter. He musters enough strength to flop over onto his back, letting the raindrops beat down on his face, like little stabbing needles. </p><p><em>What a goddamn night,</em> he thinks, and then, exhausted beyond measure, he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">begins to laugh</span>. It starts off slow, barely more than little huffs tickling the hairs around his mouth. But then it devolves into something giddy and manic, rolling in waves from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. </p><p>In this half delirious, punch-drunk, adrenaline fueled euphoric state, Matt knows three things. </p><p>One: he’s more than alive. He’s <em>awake.</em></p><p>Two: the City is alive. It lives and breathes and has a heart that beats in time with the electric buzz of the people inhabiting it.</p><p>And three: whatever’s been chasing him — <span class="pwa-mark decorator">whatever</span> took over Mr. Business’s body — is a disease, and it’ll stop at nothing until it’s destroyed the City.</p><p><em>Truth</em> hums pleasantly in his bones, giving him warmth and strength, and power to push himself off the ground and stumble back towards civilization. </p><p>It’s been a goddamn disaster of a night. Oddly enough, though, it isn’t the absolute worst one he’s ever had.</p><p>But it is pretty high up there.</p><p>He’s out two-fifty from bus fare. He doesn’t have the ten-thousand dollars <span class="pwa-mark decorator">he was promised</span>. He <span class="pwa-mark decorator">has no idea</span> where the fuck he is, and he’s got sand in places that are going to be a bitch to clean. </p><p>He hacks a wet cough and shivers. </p><p>At least he has that seven dollar tub of ice cream waiting for him once he gets home. He’s gonna fucking need it. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>come follow me on tumblr @peantutbutter if you like!</p><p>The format of this fic is gonna alternate between short and long chapters, so the next update (coming Nov. 27th) will be a bit of a short interruption.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Interruption I: Parturition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a short interruption (as all further interruptions will be) today. Trigger warning for emetophobia here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s 12:21 a.m. on a Wednesday when the City collapses onto the kitchen floor, coughing up water. The harbor fills his lungs. The acrid taste of brine and fish sits heavily on his tongue, and the back of his throat is slick with oil. <em>Shit. </em>He’s never borne one so soon after loosing another. That was fucking <em>fast.</em></p><p>And of course it’s a water birth. He <em>hates </em>water births. </p><p>Each one is different. Painful in their own ways, but he’ll take the blistering heat of fire or the vertigo of air any day of the week. They’re fast, but over with in an agonizing instant, and he can move on to finding the newest addition to the family. But water? Water is a goddamn bitch. Cold and lonely, and it takes for-goddamned-ever. </p><p>It’s the struggle that does him in every time. Frantic limbs flail to breach the surface. At least with earth suffocations, there isn’t much room to move. That kind of terror is awful too, don’t get him wrong, but at least there’s less exhaustion.</p><p>He’s sweaty and clammy, and his arms can barely support his own weight. Freedom and Destruction help him crawl into the tub. It’s the only way to make this easier. To surround himself in the element of his new kin. He grips the porcelain rim so tight that bits chip off. The pain of his nails being forced deeper into their beds is sharp and pointed, a beautiful balance to the ache of a constant, crushing pressure. </p><p>Destruction turns the faucet, and Freedom drags a bucket over for the City to barf into. Saltwater. Plastic debris. A couple of fish. All coated in the iridescent sheen of oil. The harbor is fucking disgusting. </p><p>The City scrabbles with his shirt. He has to get rid of it. The map inked onto his body is shifting, searching for the poor bastard who’s way in over their heads. </p><p>His back arches unnaturally, and he gasps like he’s been stabbed. Water splashes everywhere, but it doesn’t matter. His hand reaches out, and someone — Freedom — squawks when he grabs their shirt. “Get Jeremy,” he hisses, because he knows Life is feeling this too; the struggle of someone fighting for their own. Freedom babbles excuses, but the City cuts him off. “<em>Get. Jeremy.” </em></p><p>His fingers go lax around Freedom’s collar when the Aspect pulls away. He drags the bucket over and vomits into it. Destruction makes a disgusted noise, hesitantly patting the City’s back. One part sympathy, two parts concerned. <em>It’s admirable,</em> the City thinks absently. There’s nothing any of them can do to really help them. Whatever is going to happen will happen with or without them. But they try anyway. He’s so lucky to have Aspects that love him. Other Cities aren’t so lucky.</p><p>There’s shouting and thumping from the other side of the penthouse, and the City won’t be surprised when he later finds out Life punched Freedom in the face. </p><p>Life stands in the doorway, pale and sweating, an approximation of murder glinting in their eyes. The City looks to Destruction and gives him a nod towards the door. <em>Get out of here.</em> Destruction nods in return and he leaves without a word. </p><p>It’s just Life and the City now. </p><p>“I know you’re upset,” the City says between shuddering breaths, and Life’s lips curl into an ugly snarl. “But there’s another one of us out there, and they need our help. So quit your bitching and help me find them.”</p><p>Life stares at him, eyes hard and angry, like it’s the City’s fault this is happening. </p><p>Then they feel the new one die.</p><p>And be reborn.</p><p>It sends both of them reeling. The City cries out, and Life falls to their knees by the tub in pain. Crushing pain and heavy lungs. Water pours from the City’s mouth onto the floor, pooling on the cold tiles and leaking out into the hallway. </p><p>“Okay,” Life says, breathless and strained. “Fuck, fine.”</p><p>The City reaches for Life’s hand, presses the warm, calloused palm to his chest. And, as one, they breathe in, focusing on the source of their discomfort, searching themselves for their new family. Life watches, mesmerized by the ink moving across the City’s skin. It slithers and slides like a snake. Motorways and side streets, power lines and sewers. Every piece that builds Los Santos shifting and moving until it finally stops and settles. Life lifts their palm off the City’s chest, and underneath is a single mote of color slowly moving towards downtown. </p><p>The City looks down and smiles. “Fuck,” he says, high and laughing giddily in postpartum endorphins. Then he sighs, relaxing into the tub. “That one hurt like a bitch.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 2 (proper) will be uploaded December 11, and we get to look forward to Matt finally interacting with some of the Fakes. Stay tuned!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Lost & Found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Matt has an out of body experience, and Geoff and Gavin pay their new family member a visit.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Matt hasn’t been able to leave his apartment in days. </p>
<p>It isn’t for lack of trying. After sleeping off the hell-night he had at the pier, all he wanted was a breath of fresh air. Just to take a walk or something. Maybe stop by the game store a few blocks away and imagine a world where he can afford all the titles he’s been looking forward to. </p>
<p>He barely makes it two streets over before he has to turn back and barricade himself at home. </p>
<p>He’s always been an introverted and relatively anti-social person, but he’s never considered himself agoraphobic by any means. Sure, he didn’t enjoy going outside, but he’d do it if he had to. But something’s <em>different</em> now. He can’t quite put his finger on it. The city is louder. It expands and contracts <span class="pwa-mark decorator">beneath</span> his feet, and every breeze coming off the ocean, wet and hot, is a breath from the city’s lungs. </p>
<p>His bones vibrate at a frequency too low to <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be heard</span>, but high enough to <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be understood</span>. The chatter of the surrounding people, the murmur of the city, hums in time to the buzz in his head. The pitch rises and falls. <em>Truth. Lies. Truth. Lies. </em>It makes his teeth clench and the hair on his arms stand on end.</p>
<p>He had caught his reflection in the glass of some small shop and barely recognized himself. Everything was the same; nothing had changed about his appearance. He still had the same sallow cheeks and tired eyes. The same beard and long hair with a faded streak. He <span class="pwa-mark decorator">was</span> as he always was, at least on the surface. </p>
<p>But it was what lay underneath that gave him pause. Something had changed. <em>He</em> had changed. Whatever happened to him that the pier caused something to shift somewhere under his skin. It itches and prickles, a splinter wedged into the very essence of his being. It’s dizzying and uncomfortable, and he can’t help but feel like he’s missing something. It feels like the messy, gray, ambiguous void which lay between truth and lie, where it could be both or neither. </p>
<p>He’s Matt Bragg, this much is true. But he’s also something indescribably <em>more. </em>He’s so cosmically large and infinitely small at the same time. It’s overwhelming. Existing is overwhelming — <em>Truth</em>, his bones hum. <em>But we exist anyway. What a wonderful, powerful thing to do. — </em>and he’s become a stranger in his own skin.</p>
<p>So instead of facing whatever the fuck is happening head on, he closes the blinds and locks himself away like a fucking coward. </p>
<p>It’s for the best, he tells himself. He’s really not keen on stumbling across Mr. Business or that eldritch ooze again. Sure, city of four million people and whatever, but considering that weird sentient goop found him more than once within two days, he doesn’t like his chances.</p>
<p>So he stays put. His living room is his office and he can get groceries delivered if it comes to that. He’s pretty sure whatever is after him hadn’t figured out which apartment is his, and <em>truth </em>sings a quiet tune in his ears. That weird spell where he couldn’t move and lost time meant that the thing was close, but it hadn’t found him. </p>
<p>Not yet, anyway. </p>
<p>So, if Mr. Business or anything else comes for him, at least he’ll have the home ground advantage. He knows the layout of his home front and back. Knows where his secret weapon stashes are, knows the blind spots and best corners for hiding. If anything tries to get in, he’s damn sure he’ll be ready for it. </p>
<p>It’s day three of his self-imposed lockdown when he finally notices the white van sitting outside his building. He remembers overhearing snippets of conversations held in the hall outside his door:</p>
<p>“Think the <span class="pwa-mark decorator">landlord’s</span> finally gonna fumigate this place?” — </p>
<p>— “I’ve been having problems with my water pressure recently, think some guys are looking at the building’s plumbing?” — </p>
<p>— “Electrician, I think. Probably here <span class="pwa-mark decorator">to finally fix</span> the shitty lights in the shitty hallways.”</p>
<p>All reasonable, but none sit right. That there isn’t one definitive explanation is enough to put him on edge. He dares a peek at the vehicle parked across the street and frowns. The writing on the side is blurry. A mishmash of colors and letters overlapping like it can’t decide what it wants to say. The visual equivalent of many voices speaking all at once. Exterminators. Plumbers. Electricians. City maintenance. Just when he can make out the name of a company or some recognizable logo, it morphs into something else. It makes his head throb and skin crawl. He feels nauseated. It isn’t right. </p>
<p>It’s a <em>lie</em>. </p>
<p>But he can’t figure out what the truth is. It slips through his <span class="pwa-mark decorator">fingers,</span> loose and fluid, impossible to grasp. Something more powerful than he is, something beyond his understanding is preventing him from seeing what’s actually there. </p>
<p>It’s fucking unnerving. </p>
<p>His first instinct is that it’s people from out East. His past has finally caught up with him. But the increasingly familiar hum of <em>false</em> shakes his bones. </p>
<p>The ooze, then. But that makes no sense either. He doesn’t need that strange buzz to know that. It didn’t need a van to find him all those other times. If it really wanted to watch him, wouldn’t it just creep in through the cracks in the walls or something?</p>
<p>Maybe he’s just being paranoid. Maybe it really is just some company van. Maybe who — or what — ever is inside isn’t actually watching him. But then the base of his skull tingles <em>false</em>, and he really, <em>really</em> hates that.</p>
<p>Someone’s watching him. Fuck if he knows who. He has to stop himself from pondering their intentions. There are some things he’d rather not know.</p>
<p>He lets the curtains fall shut, blocking sunlight and casting his living room into dim shadow. It’s surreal. Almost dreamlike. Heightened senses and almost meta knowledge about the world around him he doesn’t so much know as he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">does feel</span>. </p>
<p>He sinks into the couch and turns on the TV. Desperate for any kind of distraction, he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">starts flipping</span> through the channels. He’s not sure what he’s looking for exactly. Something interesting enough to keep him preoccupied, but mindless enough that it doesn’t set his teeth on edge with a constant buzz of <em>true</em> and <em>false.</em> </p>
<p>He lands on a news station and his mind is suddenly an explosion. <span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>TruthLiesTruthTruthLiesLiesTruthLiesLiesLiesTRUTHTRUTH</em><strong><em>TRUTH</em></strong></span></p>
<p>He feels it. Like being shaken apart. Every atom, every fiber of his being <span class="pwa-mark decorator">trembles</span> and writhes. He sees<em> truth</em>, solid and block-like; soft as a blanket on one end and sharper than a knife on the other. He tastes <em>lies</em>, thick and sickeningly sweet on his tongue, but <span class="pwa-mark decorator">stinging and bitter</span> at the back of his throat. And that disquieting in between makes every single hair on his body stand on end. </p>
<p>It’s too much all at once, and he’s free falling into his own body. The rush of blood each time his heart pumps; his lungs expanding and contracting like balloons in his chest; every minute twitch and movement of his muscles. He’s unraveling, bits of consciousness and awareness moving past himself, sinking into the floor and expanding into the walls, and he <em>knows.</em></p>
<p>He knows that Jerry, who lives three doors down, is having an affair.</p>
<p>He knows that Clara on floor five is pregnant, and she has no idea how to break the news to her parents.</p>
<p>He knows that his landlord has a gambling problem and almost all the tenants' rent money goes towards fueling that addiction.</p>
<p>And then he’s tumbling, spiraling, flying over Los Santos like some sort of sentient comet. The city laughs and breathes and sings. The powerful chords of <em>truth</em> interweave with the dissonant notes of <em>lies</em>, creating a symphony that’s rhythm and tempo <span class="pwa-mark decorator">is set</span> by the needs and desires of the people. </p>
<p>There’s an ebb and flow to it. A give and take. Certain parts of the city operate on the core belief that most people are telling the truth. Others are just the opposite and can only function under the presumption that most people are lying. Most of the city is somewhere in between. There’s the <span class="pwa-mark decorator">general </span>consensus that truth is preferable, but a tacit understanding that everyone has secrets they want to keep safe. </p>
<p>News, stories, rumors flow through the city. Through Word of mouth, the internet, over the phone, via text, or in person, they course through the city like blood through veins. And as Matt’s consciousness shoots higher and higher, he catches what looks like a heartbeat. It pulses and throbs, truth and lies lighting up in the heart of downtown and radiating outwards. Down the major arteries that are <span class="pwa-mark decorator">main streets</span> and highways, all the way to the <span class="pwa-mark decorator">Vinewood</span> Hills.</p>
<p>It’s breathtaking</p>
<p>It’s beautiful.</p>
<p>It’s <em>alive.</em></p>
<p>He gasps, and his eyes fly open. The world bends and bows around him before settling back into place. The newscaster’s voice drones monotonously on and he sinks into his too soft couch. A horn honks outside, sirens wail in the distance, and the filter of his fish tank bubbles quietly. A door slams somewhere down the hall, and the smell of garlic wafts in from someone making dinner in another apartment. This is his home. Or at least he thought it was. These are the sounds, feelings, and smells he’s grown used to. They should be comforting.</p>
<p>But he’s just cramped and claustrophobic, instead. His furniture is too close together; his walls are too. He extends his arms in front of him and flexes his fingers. Information flows through him, <span class="pwa-mark decorator">free and unfettered</span>, into the world beyond.</p>
<p>He’s too big for his apartment, he realizes, and the back of his skull hums pleasantly. He’s outgrown it. He doesn’t know what he is, but he’s pretty sure he’s something more than a person. What he was before, he isn’t that any longer. He’s not like his neighbors. </p>
<p>He’s a part of the City now. </p>
<p>He grabs the remote, and the TV turns off. </p>
<p>What the actual fuck is going on?</p>
<p>None of this is normal. Sure, he had a near death experience, and almost drowned, but this shit started happening before that.</p>
<p>He buries his face in his hands. He sits there for a long, <em>long</em> time, and only looks up when he hears a sliding door slam shut outside. Curious, he gets to his feet and peeks out between his blinds. It’s hard to see, but he spots two figures walking around the van parked across the street. He frowns, and when they seem to turn to look at his window, he pulls away like <span class="pwa-mark decorator">he’s been burned</span>. </p>
<p>
  <em>Shit. </em>
</p>
<p>He swallows thickly and draws his lip between his teeth. They’re going to make their move, eventually. Tomorrow; next week; later today? He gets no hum of <em>truth</em> and supposes that maybe they don’t know when they’re going to strike either. But he has to be ready when they do. He looks around his apartment, grasping for ideas. </p>
<p>Kitchen knives. Some string. A bucket. An iron. A toaster…</p>
<p>Yeah, he can totally Kevin McCallister some shit.</p>
<hr/>
<p>“You sure this is the right number?” </p>
<p>It’s the third time Gavin’s asked the same question, and <span class="pwa-mark decorator">at this point, </span>Geoff is <span class="pwa-mark decorator">beginning to doubt</span> himself. </p>
<p>The building itself is a goddamn shithole. Water stains run down the walls, the lights in the hallways flicker and swing dangerously on strings, and there’s evidence of pests all over the place. It’s hard to believe that anyone actually lives here. But he’s sure this is the place. It’s the right building, at the very least.</p>
<p>It would have been easier if Jeremy were present.</p>
<p>He could always find those odd threads that didn’t quite belong somewhere and tease them out of the greater tapestry. A lot of detective work could have <span class="pwa-mark decorator">been avoided</span> if only Life had <span class="pwa-mark decorator">deigned</span> the search for his new family member worth of his attention.</p>
<p>“I helped you pinpoint their location to a single square block. What more do you want from me? You can figure the rest out,” Jeremy had snapped. He’d never complained about helping find new Aspects before. Then again, he’d never had to do it immediately after losing his partner, so Geoff <span class="pwa-mark decorator">decided to </span>cut him a little slack. It’s not like this is anything new. He’d found Aspects before Jeremy came along, though he is a little out of practice doing it the old-fashioned way.</p>
<p>“It’s the only apartment where there <span class="pwa-mark decorator">hasn’t been any</span> activity since we’ve been watching it,” Geoff says. He presses his palm against the door, half expecting to feel something. How Jeremy could make sense of the knots that human lives twisted themselves into, Geoff will never know. Every time he tries to follow a thread, he loses it somewhere in the mess that tangles throughout his very being. It’s hard being so big. Things — people — have a nasty tendency to get lost. He feels awful whenever that happens. Every time he isn’t able to protect his people is a failure on his part.</p>
<p>But Jeremy can take each strand and weave them into a blanket that keeps Geoff warm and alive. The buildings made up his bones, the roads and telephone wires serve as his veins and arteries. But what is a city without people? They are the heart, and they are what keeps Geoff’s beating.</p>
<p>“Couldn’t it just be empty?” Gavin asks. It’s a reasonable question, but apartment buildings like this <span class="pwa-mark decorator">are typically packed</span> to near suffocation. <span class="pwa-mark decorator">The fact that</span>, according to the landlord, only one person lives in this <span class="pwa-mark decorator">particular </span>unit is unusual. But he’s quiet and pays his rent on time, so he just leaves the guy alone. </p>
<p>Geoff shakes his head. “It’s not.” He may not <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be able to </span>distinguish the life inside from all the others in the city, but he <em>can </em>feel the electricity and water moving through the wires and pipes in the walls. “Whoever lives here hasn’t left in several days.”</p>
<p>It takes a moment for Gavin to process. The thought of being confined to a tiny flat for days on end slowly sinking in. His eyes go wide and Geoff watches with vague amusement as he goes pale. Freedom can’t <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be contained</span>. It would drive him nuts. “Why would they do that?” he asks quietly, baffled fear tinging his voice. </p>
<p>“Because the world is scary for newborns, <span class="pwa-mark decorator">Gavvers</span>,” Geoff says. It’s been so long since he’s been new to this world, but he remembers finding Fiona years ago, the determination in her eyes only barely concealing the fear of how her world suddenly changed. Righteous rage is all-consuming, and the fires of Justice burn brighter than anything Destruction or Chaos could set alight. </p>
<p>He wonders what his new ward sees. What are they afraid of? What changed for them?</p>
<p>He takes a deep breath. After picking up so many strays, he shouldn’t be so nervous about it, anymore. But each newcomer is different. There’s no good way to break to someone that they’re a personified aspect of the city’s overall needs and desires and are therefore immortal until someday they suddenly aren’t. It’s a lot to drop on someone, and it sounds absolutely ludicrous. </p>
<p>So, Geoff knocks politely at the door, because that’s the normal, <em>human</em> thing to do. </p>
<p>He waits a long moment before knocking again.</p>
<p>Gavin fidgets beside him. “I don’t like it here,” he says, shifting his weight nervously. “It’s too small. These people <span class="pwa-mark decorator">are trapped</span> here.”</p>
<p>Geoff frowns. He can’t deny he’s been feeling it too. The walls closing in; the hot, muggy air of dozens of bodies breathing in and out; the core deep despair of mothers and fathers just trying to put food on the table and provide for their family. Places like this remind him of what he is and the responsibilities that come with it. </p>
<p>He needs to do better. Needs to take care of these people. Their pain is a wound and it must <span class="pwa-mark decorator">be tended</span> to and looked after, lest it grow infected. </p>
<p>But <span class="pwa-mark decorator">they’ll have to</span> wait. At least for a time. He can’t do anything right now, and even if he could, he’s got a more pressing issue on his plate. The City has borne a new Aspect to fill <span class="pwa-mark decorator">a new need</span>, and it’s Geoff’s duty to help his new family understand what’s happening to them.</p>
<p>He casts Gavin a sympathetic look. “We’ll help them,” he promises. Gavin looks at him with those wide eyes. He swallows thickly and shifts uncomfortably, but he nods. He trusts Geoff. He trusts him so much it makes the City’s heart ache. </p>
<p>Geoff takes a collecting breath and knocks a third time. Still nothing. He tries not to feel insulted. Whoever lives here doesn’t know who they are, it makes sense that they wouldn’t want to answer the door to complete strangers. Especially in this part of town. </p>
<p>But Geoff really, <em>really</em> needs to talk to them. The longer they go <span class="pwa-mark decorator">without any</span> sort of support system, the more danger they’re going to be in. And the more of a danger they’re going to be to others. </p>
<p>He glances furtively down either side of the hall before reaching for the doorknob. He hates having to do this. It makes his skin crawl, invading someone’s privacy like this. Not to mention that such a blatant violation of trust is a terrible way to begin any kind of relationship. But time is of the essence, and if this person won’t open their goddamned door, Geoff really doesn’t have any other choice. </p>
<p>There is no <span class="pwa-mark decorator">door</span> the City cannot open. The resistance of the lock slip away under his touch as he twists, and he carefully pulls the door towards him. It creaks on its hinges, a high-pitched whine which complains about the aches and pains of a building slowly decaying. </p>
<p>Gavin slips through the crack, and Geoff follows <span class="pwa-mark decorator">after </span>him.</p>
<p>Inside the apartment <span class="pwa-mark decorator">the blinds are drawn</span>, muting the light of the setting sun, and the lights are off. Dust hangs in air, stale and smothering. Gavin curls in on himself, and the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck stand on end. It’s too still. Too quiet. “Hello?” He calls into the darkness. </p>
<p>The door clicks shut behind him, and in the fraction of a second afterward, Geoff realizes that they had walked into a trap. It all happens so fast. There’s the sound of a wire snapping, and suddenly he’s doused with something that smells an awful lot like bleach. He closes his eyes instinctually and stumbles back. Gavin cries out beside him. Clumsily, he reaches out, trying to find his friend. Instead, his hand brushes against something hot and metallic, and it sets every nerve he has alight. He collapses to the floor, muscles seizing and teeth sinking into his own tongue. An explosion of copper fills his mouth. </p>
<p>It feels like an eternity of writhing and twitching, but eventually the coursing pain subsides. <span class="pwa-mark decorator">His cheek is pressed</span> against the hardwood floor and blood spills from his mouth. He groans wetly, wincing as his nearly severed tongue knits itself back together. Gavin answers with a pained whine of his own, followed by the clattering of metal falling to the floor. </p>
<p>Geoff pries his eyes open, ignoring the burn of bleach dripping into them. Through blurred vision he makes out Gavin’s figure slumped against the wall, blood spotting his shirt. <span class="pwa-mark decorator">A number of</span> forks <span class="pwa-mark decorator">are shallowly embedded</span> in his torso. He hisses as he reaches up to remove another one. Geoff’s arms can barely support his own weight, but he <span class="pwa-mark decorator">manages to wriggle</span> towards Gavin to help him with his wounds. </p>
<p>But then the floorboards creak in the hallway just beyond and both Geoff and Gavin’s attention snaps towards the source of the noise. Geoff rubs his eyes and blinks away the bleach. The entire healing process hurts, but his sight returns as his eyes repair themselves. By the time he can see clearly, he can make out the shadowed figure of a man sitting in a chair a few paces in front of them. In the faint light of the setting sun filtering in through the blinds, Geoff is pretty sure he sees a sledgehammer resting across the man’s lap. </p>
<p>And he can’t help but smile.</p>
<p><span class="pwa-mark decorator"><em>Oh,</em></span><em> yeah</em>, Geoff thinks. <em>He’s one of us, for sure.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter ended up being a little shorter than anticipated but what would have been the third scene made more sense to go in the next chapter. Also school was kicking my ass but I've got some time off now to catch up on what I've fallen behind on. I hope y'all are doing well! The next chapter should be up around the 25th!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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